


Across the County Line

by vanderlindemorgan



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Arson, Banter, Deception, Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Marriage, Grooming, Inspired by Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov, It starts off with some cute moments, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Virginity, Manipulation, No VFD AU, Obsession, Older Man/Younger Woman, Title from 13 Beaches by Lana Del Rey, Underage Drinking, Violaf, but it gets pretty uncomfortable as things go on, don't bother with any hate comments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28070418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanderlindemorgan/pseuds/vanderlindemorgan
Summary: “It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight.”After one fateful meeting with the eldest Baudelaire daughter, Count Olaf falls to the mercy of his own maddening and lustful obsession with her. Driven by a desire to possess her at any cost, the two enter into a dangerously forbidden romance. With both of them walking a fragile line, knowing one wrong move could cause their relationship to break and shatter, Olaf eventually comes to the resolve that some drastic measures must be taken, involving betrayal, arson and a series of lies and schemes in order to keep Violet in his clutches(ON INDEFINITE HIATUS)
Relationships: Violet Baudelaire/Count Olaf
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25





	1. Part I: Chapter One

In a lot of ways, it didn’t feel like he’d been gone so long. Had it really been seven years already? It certainly hadn’t felt like it. With his stint abroad as the star of an illustrious theatrical production, the time hadn’t seemed anywhere near as long as it had lasted - well, to him anyway. One minute he was performing on the closing night of the production in a sold-out theatre, the next he was sitting at the airport’s baggage claim waiting for his luggage to finally appear. Leaning back in his seat, Olaf ran a hand through his hair, letting the bustling chatter of the terminal pass him by, his mind fixated on everything that had transpired in those years. Everything he’d ever wanted came to fruition: glory, recognition, a generous sum of money to top it all off. From where he was now, it seemed like he was on top of the world, figuratively speaking anyhow. What felt strangest to him though, was that throughout the elation and heightening of his ego that the trip had brought, there was a strange sense of melancholy that had come attached to his arrival home. 

There was a certain exhilaration that came with every performance, everytime he was able to properly bring the words of his scripts to life on the stage, an invigorating mercurial high. Like all highs though, it came inevitably crashing down, so he’d been feeling quite sullen from the moment he’d stepped on the plane a few long hours before. For what reason though, he didn’t entirely know. Well, he had a slight suspicion as to what triggered it, something that had been circling in his mind for quite some time now. 

In those seven years passed, only a few weeks prior had an event come to pass that had dredged up memories of his past, memories concerning two figures in particular. After only having sparing thoughts towards Beatrice and Bertrand Baudelaire’s wellbeing the past few years, it struck him as odd that now of all times he’d find himself reminiscing on old memories. They hadn’t spoken much since he’d gone to Berlin, though that wasn’t to do with any sort of bad blood between them. To the contrary in fact, Olaf and the Baudelaires were on quite good terms with each other. He’d known Beatrice since they were children after all. The only reason they’d kept in sparse contact had to do with his own hectic schedule. Such things were simply a fact of life when one was a high-in-demand impresario, though he’d be lying to himself if he were to pretend that at times those hours he should have spent outlining his next script weren’t spent instead seducing beautiful women at back-alley dive bars. 

Spotting the last set of his suitcases appearing on the carousel, he wrestled himself from his thoughts momentarily to go and collect them, eager to get out of the airport and back home as quickly as possible. The flight had dragged on for 16 hours, with a brief stopover in London, and he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep since yesterday, so as to be expected his body felt sluggish and drained, partially aided by the three glasses of wine he’d had on board. 

Wrestling his bags off to the side, his thoughts returned to the matters concerning Beatrice and Bertrand, rousing recollections of times long since passed between them. Those memories had ended up calling forth a muted feeling of pensiveness, a sort of reflective state if you will. He’d thought about it a lot on the flight back - there wasn’t any reason for him not to see them, it’d be nice to catch up and reminisce on old times, and he wouldn’t object to even seeing Beatrice’s brats again - he wasn’t usually fond of children, but he didn’t mind the Baudelaire’s children too much. The last time he’d seen them the eldest daughter, Violet, was only seven years old and her younger brother Klaus was five. He never spoke to either of them much yet he wasn’t unkind to them, only distant and dismissive since he didn’t really know how to handle young kids.

He thought about Violet in particular, looking back on a faint memory he had of one of the few times him and the eldest Baudelaire interacted with one another - Beatrice had thrown yet another one of her fancy cocktail parties to which he’d been in begrudging attendance to. He barely knew any of the other people present, and on that particular day wasn’t in the mood to swan around as he usually would with an air of arrogance and callous ambivalence that made women flock to him. His sour mood had everything to do with Beatrice herself, as the party in question was held as a celebration of her career. She was once an actress too, a much more successful and revered one to his eternal annoyance. It was always regarded as strange by others that such close friends could also be thrown into such a bitter rivalry but such was the way his life went. 

It was because of this that he’d mostly secluded himself to the bar, downing every last shot of liquor in sight and generally living in his own thoughts when at some point in his semi-drunken blur he’d ended up out in the back garden, leaning against the trails of ivy that decorated the fenceline. He was alone, or so he’d thought, until out the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a young girl peeking around the side of the garden shed, watching him intently. “I know you’re there, little sneak. If you’re trying to spy on me, you’re remarkably bad at it” he called out. To that, she’d slid away and revealed herself to him, taking a few steps forward so that he could see her better. “I’m sorry for bothering you. I’m not supposed to be out here, but it’s just so boring upstairs, and I needed something from the shed for a project I’m working on” she replied. “Please don’t tell my mother about this, I don’t want her to be cross with me”. 

Olaf had chuckled under his breath, taking another sip from the glass of whiskey in his hand. “Don’t fret, I won’t tell your mother I saw you out of bed. What are you working on, anyway?” he asked. He’d heard many tales of Violet’s masterful inventing talents but had never gotten the chance to see any before that moment. He could remember clearly how her eyes had lit up at his inquiry, which led to him following her up the side stairs at the back of the house to her bedroom where she’d shown him what project she had currently dedicated herself to. 

“Here it is. It’s supposed to be able to fetch mail for you at the click of a button but I’m having trouble with some of the gears. Plus, it keeps running off and biting people” she explained, holding up a robotic weasel in her palms. Now, he hadn’t any clue of things to do with mechanics or inventing but he’d listened to her talk about it passionately, showing him how the gears worked and the different materials she was trying out. It was all quite cute really, and even if they didn’t speak to each other much again after that night, he still looked back on it rather fondly for whatever reason. Olaf wondered what kind of girl Violet would have grown into during those last few years. He could always see so much of Beatrice in her, from her chestnut brown hair to the certain facial expressions she’d pull when she was excited. Even for someone who didn’t really care for children, he had found her quite endearing. 

Olaf dragged his suitcases out of the airport, slightly annoyed at himself that he didn’t consider phoning one of his troupe up ahead of time to come meet with him. One or two of them had come over to Berlin with him and were still stuck on a delayed flight back, but most of them had stayed behind. As he tossed his luggage into the back of his car and slid into the driver's seat, he began to consider the prospect of possibly seeing Beatrice and Bertrand again. A small part of him wondered if he could even be bothered with calling them up: he wasn’t exactly in the best mood to talk to anyone really with how sleep deprived he was. Then again, he reasoned, it wouldn’t be like he’d be agreeing to see them today. They’d probably arrange something for the next few days, allowing him time to decompress a bit. Taking a small swig of whiskey from the flask he kept in the glove compartment, he twisted the keys in the ignition and slammed on the accelerator, his wine addled brain not fully registering that it probably wasn’t the best decision to drive back alone with the amount of liquor he had. Although, truthfully, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before. 

The drive back was largely uneventful and tedious. On the best of days he wasn’t a great driver, oftentimes delegating to one of the troupe to chauffeur him around whenever he could, though today he was worse than usual. He was kept distracted by things concerning his past circling around his head - things to do with Beatrice, his own parents, a woman whom he’d only thought of when the liquor ran heavy and the hours had turned late, things that made him hesitant to consider getting back in contact with such figures of his past. There was a period of time where things had become particularly strained between them - Beatrice and his rivalry was always something that coloured their whole relationship with each other, with Olaf even going so far as to viewing it being the very foundation of their entire friendship but it had gotten particularly bad there for a few years. Somewhere deep within him, he always had felt inadequate next to her but seeing her become so celebrated and beloved when she had only half of his talent made him seeth. Their meetings with each other became tense, and even though everything had somehow managed to fix itself within a few months, the whole incident had cost him his engagement to another woman. For a few months there he’d been left out in the dust, wallowing in bitterness and hate until in the blink of an eye the whole situation had been dealt with. Still, there were lingering feelings of resentment in him for what happened, as much as he didn’t want to admit it aloud. The mere thought of it made him seize up, unconsciously gripping the steering wheel tighter in his grasp. All things considered it was a miracle he made it back in one piece, or without being stopped by police.

Slamming the door of his manor shut behind him, he discarded his bags off to the side, being too lazy to even begin to bother with unpacking: he’d do it later, when he was up to it. Though later for him usually meant somewhere in the space between three months and three years. 

Drinking the last of the whiskey from his flask, he stared at the telephone witheringly, glaring at it as if it were taunting him. He hadn’t even made up his mind on whether or not he should indulge in reminiscence and call her. For once fate had given him an easy exit strategy - if he simply never contacted them again, their friendship could finally drift apart and break naturally after wearing at the seams for so long. Was it worth reigniting old fires just for old times sake? Maybe he was being too melodramatic about this all, but really, what was the point in life if not to be dramatic? 

After a few more minutes of deliberation, he settled on picking up the goddamn phone and calling her before it became too late in the night. Dialing in the number that he’d come to know off by heart in all those years, he waited impatiently as he heard the dial tone ring, a fleeting wish that she wouldn’t pick up at all crossing his mind. Clearly he still wasn’t all that certain about his decision. Then again, he didn’t think he would ever be a hundred percent certain about anything pertaining to Beatrice Baudelaire.

The dial tone cut out and the sound of a voice came through the line, to his minor dismay. It was too late to back out now, and in all honesty despite the mixed feelings surrounding the whole situation he was curious to see where this could all go. Which is why instead of hanging up like his instinct told him so, he cleared his throat and settled back into his chair with anything but ease. 

“Hello, Beatrice”. 

As per usual, he’d been entirely wrong in his expected outcome of the situation. Although, really, expectation probably wasn’t the right word. Did he expect something bad to happen or did he want something bad to happen? Nevertheless, his conversation with Beatrice had been perfectly mundane to say the least. No terse words were exchanged, no dramatic scenes that seemed like something straight out of a script he’d write - just a simple, normal conversation. They talked for a few moments on what he’d been doing overseas for the last couple of years before he managed to steer the conversation towards the possibility of meeting up, to which Beatrice had been delighted at the suggestion. “Of course, absolutely! I’d love to see you, it’s been far too long. Bertrand mentioned you this past week, so it’s been on my mind to get in contact with you” she’d babbled on, her sickly sweet voice unexpectedly putting him on edge. Some part of him knew she was making it all up - if he hadn’t called her, she wouldn’t have given him a moment's thought. She was only trying to be polite, being the ever courteous woman she was but even he knew that was overkill. He almost felt tempted to make a sarcastic jive but there wasn’t much point in antagonising her. 

“Right. So, when are you free this week?” he’d responded, allowing for her to invite him over for dinner on Saturday night at six, exactly two minutes ago from the current time. He’d accepted of course, and so the plan was set, leading to where he was now, standing just outside the Baudelaire mansion underneath a streetlight, reaching into his suit pocket for that ever present flask of whiskey he kept on him. When he’d woken up two hours or so before by the arrival of a piercing headache, he’d wondered once more if he could really be fucked with showing up. He was already hungover, so he had an excuse to bail. She wouldn’t care too much if he did anyway. She had her perfect life, with other rich intellectual friends to surround herself with. He was only a part of her past, their mutually shared childhood being the only reason they still stuck with each other. Though, he supposed, he couldn’t entirely speak for her own reasons as to why they still talked.

Taking a swig of whiskey and stepping forward past the large wrought iron gates, Olaf eliminated the idea of turning back and ditching from his head and brought himself in front of the extravagant mansion, his hand already poised on the mahogany door. He was just about to knock but found the door to have swung open to reveal the figure of the well-kept, classy woman he’d known for too many years to count.

“Olaf! You’re here already. Come in, please” she smiled at him, gesturing for him to follow her inside. He returned the smile, albeit weakly and entirely half hearted as he directed himself inside. “You say that as if I’m not already two minutes late” he murmured under his breath, though still loud enough for Beatrice to catch what he said. “Oh, two minutes is nothing. I didn’t even notice until you brought it up. Here, why don’t I fetch you a drink and you can tell me and Bertrand about your last few years abroad?”.

She was already floating off along to the parlour room, her sugary sweet tone doing nothing to placate his lingering unwillingness to be there. If anything, the promise of more alcohol was doing more for him than anything she was saying, however he certainly wasn’t going to let her become privy to that knowledge. “You take a whiskey on ice, right? I could always remember how much you loved them back in the day” she prattled on, either being completely oblivious to the obvious tension between them or simply choosing to ignore it. Whichever it was, it didn’t affect him too much. This was pretty much the same as his performances, throwing on the facade of casual indifference as usual when inside he was anything but. It wasn’t even as if this whole situation was necessarily bad - a little uncomfortable and weird, sure, but nothing overtly terrible had happened yet. 

Flopping down on one of the couches, he shot back a semi-amused smile back at her as his mind continued to be consumed furthermore by his own doubts, those same doubts he was doing his best to push further to the back of his mind. “So you do remember after all” he quipped, lazily glancing around the room with his eyes settling on the table off to the side, adorned with various trinkets and framed photographs. He recognised so many of the faces held in those frames - many of whom he hadn’t heard a word from in years due to one reason or another, those reasons usually being born from unnecessary conflict or what others would say is “a thoroughly disagreeable personality” on his end. Olaf couldn’t help but sneer slightly at the sight of them. If only they could see him now, more successful than he had ever been before. Every now and then he liked to imagine what it would be like to rub it in their faces about how much he’s accomplished without them, though like clockwork somehow it would still manage to circle back around to Beatrice and her own marvelous achievements. 

He heard Beatrice laugh at him and say something else in response, though he wasn’t really listening to a word she said, only registering the sound of high heels on polished floorboards as they trailed off into the distance. Lifting himself up, he followed the compulsion he had to aimlessly look around the room, studying the different photographs adoring the various surfaces and indulging in every sort of memory they brought back - the good, the bad and the downright bitter. His eyes stopped on one in particular, of a younger Beatrice and himself on the steps of a fancy mansion downtown. Furrowing his brow, he picked up the frame in his hand and examined it carefully. He couldn’t have been more than twenty in that photo. 

Placing it back down, he let himself wander, not even really paying attention to where he ended up. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol or his own will, but for whatever reason he felt restless. It was almost like an instinct that pulled him into the library in the first place, something subconscious that he couldn’t help but follow. Olaf didn’t know what he expected to find there other than more than a few dozen books but as he stepped through the large double doors and into the vast array of literature he seemed to have found something incredibly more interesting and, dare he say, captivating.

That thing came in the form of a young girl curled up in one of the armchairs by the library window, her expression pensive and focused as she was lost in her book. The bright lights of the room appeared to ricochet off her pale skin, with her long brown hair flowing over her arms and hanging lightly over her face. She hadn’t taken any notice of him yet, her mind no doubt exclusively focused on the novel in front of her. He couldn’t help but trace the curve of her legs with his eyes, straight up to where her knees met her celadon green dress. For a moment there he caught himself wondering how soft her skin would be to touch, how it’d feel to caress in hands. 

It took only a single second for it to register who she was - she had to be Beatrice’s daughter, Violet Baudelaire. Recalling that night he saw her all those years ago, it was remarkable how much she’d grown up in that time. She had to be only just fourteen but she held a certain air of maturity to her, while still being young and innocent. 

He saw her side glance him, placing down her book not a moment later and pulling her head up to face him full on. That had to be the final straw for him - after catching a glimpse of those lovely ocean blue eyes, wide and bright with the light of a brilliant mind he became fully aware of how uncomfortably and intensely attracted to her he was. “Oh, I didn’t see you there. I’m sorry, can I help you?” she asked. Not missing a beat, Olaf plastered on a fiendish smile, a signature move that had made women want to kneel before him countless times over in the past. “Don’t let me interrupt you, I was simply looking around. I don’t know if you’d remember me but I’m a friend of your mothers”.

Violet’s confused expression softened, transitioning to one of clarity as she began to remember the things her mother had no doubt already told her about the previous night. “That’s right. You’re Count Olaf, aren’t you?”. 

On cue, he gave a small dramatic bow, lathering his charm on thick while he studied every feature of her dainty expression. “Indeed I am, clever girl. You must be Violet, the little inventor prodigy”.

She gave him a small smile of her own in return, her eyes beginning to twinkle as if they’d been activated, the sight of which was simply enchanting to him. “I guess that’s one way to put it. I’m Violet Baudelaire and it’s a pleasure to meet you” she said, setting aside her novel and giving him her full undivided attention. It was hard for him not to be distracted by the delicate ways she moved, and it was tempting for him to become intoxicated fully by those maddeningly adoring eyes of hers, a reaction he wasn’t entirely used to in all honesty. Sure, he’d found other women attractive before, he’d charmed and led countless others to his bed. He even held memories of a woman from years passed, with wild hair swept up with chopstick-like pencils and rosy cheeks, holding a graceful air to her that left him haunted for years to come. Yet something was different here, with Violet, something he couldn’t entirely put his finger on. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that, but there was something more. There was a sense of innocence to her, unsurprising given her age. Feeling his lips form into a smirk, he took half a step closer towards her and returned the gesture. “The pleasure’s all mine, dear. Though really this isn’t our first time meeting. Or do you not remember?” he quipped.

Just as he expected, she shook her head and furrowed her brow in response, as if she was on the edge of a memory but still unable to completely recall their previous encounter. “I’m afraid I don’t”. 

“Well, it’s no matter. What are you reading anyway?”. 

Diverting her gaze towards her book, she lifted the small paperback in her hands and nestled it into her lap, absentmindedly moving her hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s about a girl who lived during the Salem Witch Trials and her struggles with trying to suppress her own supernatural abilities for the sake avoiding persecution from the people around her. It’s quite an interesting story” she explained. 

“It must be, since you didn’t even notice me standing here until a few moments ago. I’m surprised Beatrice is letting you seclude yourself in here when you have a guest over”. 

Violet shrugged back at him, beginning to look a tad sheepish.“She’s not exactly letting me, moreso I figured that we wouldn’t be eating for another half hour and I could sneak in another chapter during that time” she admitted. 

“Fair enough. I’m merely surprised to see you here and not that booky brother of yours”. 

“Klaus? No, he’s upstairs. I don’t know what he’s doing up there though” she commented, shifting in her seat so that her knees were closer to her chest. “So what brings you here? I know my Mother usually sits guests in the parlour room when they come over, so it was rather unexpected to see you sauntering in here” she asked, twisting a loose strand of hair through her fingers. He had fleeting thoughts of how soft her hair might be, and what it would be like to run his own hands through it, an idea which he filed away for later consideration. “Nothing in particular - boredom mainly, to be honest. And a certain compulsion. For whatever reason I felt like this was the place to be”. She was turning out to be quite a charming girl, just as he’d remembered her from all those years ago. Through their brief interaction he felt inclined to talk to her for hours if only to hear more of her lovely voice. 

“My family’s library? Strange, since you don’t strike me as someone who enjoys reading” she jived playfully, leaning back into the armchair and letting the fabric of her dress fall over her legs, extending down to its proper length. It was his turn to raise his brow at her, further taking note of the way she looked up at him as if she were an audience to his performance. “Oh? Then what do I strike you as, Miss Baudelaire?” he prodded. 

Her eyes became more intense the longer she looked at him, leading him to feel like he was being studied like a textbook. Not that he really minded it, to be honest. As long as her eyes were on him only, then she could look at him any way she damn well wanted. “Someone extravagant, I guess? You strike me as someone who feels best being the centre of attention. I remember Mother saying you’re an actor, so that checks out" she professed. 

“Interesting. Tell me, Violet, do you usually psychoanalyse every man you meet?”. 

“You’re the one who asked. Don’t ask the question if you don’t want the answer” she teased back, blush creeping along the edges of her snow white cheeks. She made for an enchanting visual, to say the least, and endearing as all hell in their brief interaction. It was rare for Olaf to become so thoroughly taken with someone else, to actually want to hear more of what they had to say instead of simply waiting for another opportunity to talk. All things considered, he was a bit unsettled by just how readily he was able to admit all this and more to himself. He didn’t ponder on it any further, being more interested in continuing their banter than prying into the reasons why she stirred such feelings of intensity within him. He could consider these things later, after several more inevitable glasses of whiskey and before he collapsed drunk off his head, those last lingering thoughts pertaining to the distressing allure that was Violet Baudelaire. 

At that moment Beatrice chose to enter the room, holding two glasses betwixt her fingers: one red wine, one whiskey on ice, looking slightly miffed at finding him there, to which Olaf had to restrain himself from smirking furiously at. “There you are, I was wondering where you’d gone off to”. 

“Sorry about that, I became distracted and must have gotten lost. I was just becoming reacquainted with this fine young woman” he replied casually, inventing an excuse out of thin air while simultaneously lying through his damn teeth - of course he wasn’t sorry, not in the slightest. She probably knew that as well, though she wasn’t about to cause a fuss about it. “I see I don’t have to re-introduce you two then. Violet, do you know where your brother and sister are?” Beatrice inquired, her vague annoyance at Olaf seeming to vanish into thin air and being replaced by the pleasant demeanour she held earlier. 

“They’re around, somewhere” Violet answered, discarding her book back off to the side and standing up to face them properly. She barely even reached his shoulders height wise, but he had no time to give much more thought to that as something else that had been said caught his attention. “Sister? You had another kid, Beatrice?”.

“We had Sunny about three years ago. She’s a feisty one, and oddly good with her teeth for such a small baby. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner which, speaking of…” she explained, craning her neck to catch a glance at the fanciful clock hanging on the wall behind them. “Should be ready in about thirteen minutes or so. Vi, would you go find your brother? I’d rather have everyone downstairs in time for dinner” Beatrice requested, focusing her attention back on her eldest daughter. Being the ever polite girl she was, Violet promptly excused herself, leaving his eyes to follow her as she floated out of the room like a wandering nymph, effortlessly lovely and slipping away from his fingers in an instant. He could feel the corner of his mouth twinge in mild annoyance at her departure, somewhere in the back of his mind wishing that Beatrice could have chosen another moment to find him. 

Taking notice of her extended hand, Olaf plucked the glass out from between her fingers and brought it closer to his lips, allowing himself to taste the bitter cold liquor on his mouth. “You really don’t have to make such a fuss you know, it’s only me. We could’ve gone out for a drink instead ”.

“I know. It’s just nice to do things like this, the whole big dinner with the rest of the family. Things have been rather hectic lately so we haven’t had anyone over in awhile. And besides, it’s been forever since we last saw each other, of course I’m going to get a little enthusiastic about seeing my oldest and dearest friend”. 

He couldn’t resist sniggering at that, subconsciously swirling the glass of whiskey around in his fingers. “Dearest is certainly an interesting way to put it” he muttered. 

“Oh Olaf, I know it’s not your style to get sentimental and all but lighten up a little. I know you think I haven’t noticed but you’ve been acting tense all evening” she rolled her eyes at him. “Unless there’s something wrong, is there?”. 

Despite him not exactly making much of an effort to hide his apprehensive demeanour that night, it still somehow surprised him that she would notice it enough to point it out. There was always an element of background tension to their relationship anyway but neither of them ever really spotlighted it, preferring to ignore it, or in his case, let it simmer below the surface and growing into decades worth of suppressed bitterness. “I suppose not. Sorry, my mind has been on a few other things. Stuff to do with my next production and the like” he lied. 

“You’re already thinking of the next one? Didn’t you only just come back from Berlin?” she asked in astonishment. 

“Beatrice, you should know as well as anyone that theatre is a demanding business. When you’re as famous and talented as I am that doesn’t leave much time for rest”. 

She let out a small laugh and took a sip of wine, reminiscing on days passed. “I’d almost forgotten what it was like. Do tell me more of your years in Berlin though, I’m definitely curious to hear about it” she mused, beginning to step forward out of the room in a subtle way that indicated her desire to return to the parlour room. Regrettably, it was time to go back to focusing on what he came here to do - reinvesting himself in the life of his oldest and greatest rival and putting on the best facade of his entire goddamn career. Giving one last look in the direction Violet had left, he followed after her, taking another large gulp of whiskey while he was at it and preparing himself for whatever the hell the rest of the night could hold.


	2. Chapter Two

The piercing sound of a buzzer cut through the air, ringing through his ears and arousing him from his drunken slumber. Mustering an agitated groan from his throat, he blinked through his bleary eyes and surveyed the space around him - glancing over the disorganised piles of laundry on the floor and feeling the scent of stale air assault his senses, he knew instantly that he was in his bedroom. Which, all things considered, wasn’t that surprising in of itself. He didn’t remember passing out up there last night, or really anything after his fifth glass of wine. His head felt like it was stuffed full with cotton, evidence enough that clearly that fifth glass hadn’t been his last. 

Hearing the grating buzzer noise slice through the air like a knife once more, he cast a withering look over to the windows, peering between the half drawn drapes in an attempt to discern what the time even was. Olaf was not a morning person by any means, and as a general rule he never tended to wake up before at least ten in the morning. Once years ago he’d had an alarm, a tongue in cheek gift given to him by someone who didn’t entirely understand the meaning of a practical joke, though he never used it and ended up “accidentally” knocking it off his nightstand one morning, resulting in it smashing to pieces on the hardwood floor. With the amount he usually drank too, it had become rarer and rarer over the years that he’d actually fall asleep in his own bed, often crashing on the couch or slumped over in his dining room, or once half hanging off the side of someone’s fence - that time had resulted in him getting charged with a minor misdemeanor and developing a killer concussion on the side. 

He wondered who on Earth could be out on his front doorstep trying to bother him: his troupe members already had keys to his place so they wouldn’t need to be let in. It was probably some door-to-door salesperson or girl scout trying to sell cookies. He had half a mind to march downstairs and tell them to fuck off out of his yard, but truth be told he could hardly be bothered with even that. Rolling over on his side, Olaf continued to ignore the grating noise and hoped whoever it was would give up and leave soon. 

It wasn’t unusual for him to drink heavily - it was far rarer for him to be sober at any given time. He had drank more than usual the night before, though that was to be expected considering what he’d come back from. His mind ran over the events of the previous night, every last emotion rushing back to him as if he was still there in Beatrice’s dining room, eyes focused solely on the nymph that sat beside him. 

Frustratingly enough, after his first encounter with the Baudelaire girl, he hadn’t had an opportunity to simply ponder her beauty to himself, having no time to consider what exactly it was that was so captivating about her. Throughout his conversation with Beatrice he’d paid minimal attention to what she had been saying to him, masterfully being able to direct the conversation into a position that gave her the floor for her own tales of mediocrity - it was far easier for him to pretend to listen and occasionally give a semi-enthusiastic nod while his mind wandered back to Violet, running over how her cheeks had turned pink at his signature devilish charm. Time flew by in an instant, and he’d ended up somehow seated next to her during their dinner. It hadn’t been intentional on his part in any way: he’d been just sitting there when Violet had strutted in and slid right in next to him instead of sitting off with her brother and sister. Clearly he’d had made enough of an impression on the girl that she’d wanted to stay in his company furthermore. 

Most of the conversation over dinner had been occupied exclusively by him, Beatrice and Bertrand, though every now and then Violet or Klaus would occasionally pipe up to add in something. It was embarrassing how much he’d hung on to every word she said as if it were scripture. He watched her as she talked about school, her inventions, regular teenage girl things that normally would never cease to bore him yet he didn’t mind it coming from her. Really, she could be saying anything and he’d want to keep listening. He’d wanted to charm her even more but given the circumstances and setting it wouldn’t have been appropriate, so he’d kept most of his words to Violet as nonchalant and casual as possible, employing the use of his extraordinary acting skills to conceal any hint of fondness that might reveal itself. 

His train of thought was cut short by the incessant doorbell ring again. Raising himself up on his elbows, he cursed to himself under his breath in annoyance. Judging by the height of the sun in the sky outside, it probably wasn’t that abominably early but it might as well have been to him. He would have preferred to sink back down into sleep for another hour or more but this person obviously wasn’t going to go away unless he made them. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he grasped out for a shirt discarded next to him and pulled it on over his head, taking a brief note of the light coffee stain splattered on the lower half of cloth - he’d have to do something about that, eventually. Olaf stumbled out into the hallway and down the stairs, shouting out “Alright, alright, I’m coming!” to whatever nuisance had decided to show up at his door. 

In a confusing twist, it turned out to be a member of his theatre troupe out there, his hook-handed associate Fernald to be more specific. Leaning against the doorframe, he squinted through the blinding bright rays of sun, his hungover brain not being fully awakened yet and still trying to discern a reason why one of his stupid associates had turned up out of the blue to bother him. “What do you want?” he grumbled. 

“Sorry, I thought you said to come over? You called me a few days ago to tell me to meet up with you here today, something to do with wanting some help with your next script”.

He felt his forehead crease as he ran through his memories of the past week and tried to recall if he had in fact invited Fernald over. Something about what he’d been told seemed vaguely familiar, and if he focused just hard enough he could start to remember a distant memory of him calling someone late Tuesday night, though everything else beyond a certain point was clouded by some sort of fog, no doubt caused by the alcohol he’d ingested. “Yeah, I said that, but I meant later in the day, around six or so. What are you doing here this early?” he muttered. 

“It’s three in the afternoon, boss”. 

There was an awkward silence between them while Olaf paused to process what he’d just heard. It couldn’t be that late, could it? For the first time in his life he was starting to regret destroying that alarm clock several years ago - it’d be helpful if he was actually aware of the current time. “I knew that, I was just testing you” Olaf scoffed. He figured it was better to pretend that he knew what was going on, lest he make a fool of himself, though he knew that Fernald wasn’t really buying his false front. “Don’t you have keys? You didn’t have to stand out here ringing the godforsaken bell for five minutes”. 

“Forgot them. Didn’t realise I had until I was halfway over here. I didn’t mean to bother you, though” Fernald shrugged. 

Rolling his eyes, Olaf stepped aside and gestured for the man to enter inside.“Well, since you’re already here you might as well come in” he snapped, his annoyance at the whole debacle seeping through his tone. He watched as his associate stepped in beside him, looking slightly put off by his grouchiness yet not surprised by it: his troupe had all known him for long enough to know what he was like after a night of heavy drinking.

“Have you already made a start on the next script? I know you were already contemplating over a few ideas back in Berlin but have you made progress finalising them?” Fernald asked him, seating himself down on one of the armchairs in his study. Moving over to his desk, Olaf began to sort through the different piles of papers that cluttered it, looking every sheet of writing once over and tossing it aside when it didn’t contain what he was looking for. “Of course I have, what kind of impresario would I be if I hadn’t”. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear a voice chiding him to be more organised but he paid no mind to it - why should he bother to sort out his things? He’d only lost track of a script once or twice at most. Noticing the edge of a discarded notepad peeking out from underneath a couple of old crumpled letters that he’d picked out from his mailbox a few days before (mainly consisting of various junk mail leaflets and fliers, none of which he’d bothered to throw out yet), he pulled it out from underneath the pile of junk, realising it to be the notes for his next script. 

“Here’s what I have so far. It’s only a rough couple of ideas though” Olaf announced, tossing the notepad over. While his associate read over his various notes and semi-completed character descriptions his own thoughts returned to his meeting with the Baudelaires, his attention drawing back solely on his own interactions with Violet. It bothered him somewhat that he was drawn to her at all - she was only fourteen, and on top of that was the daughter of his oldest friend. It was highly inappropriate to even have such thoughts towards her. He wasn’t one to do guilt or shame - both were useless emotions to him, and served no purpose to furthering his own interests. Her age in itself seemed so trivial to him but it wasn’t a fact to be discarded completely: if things went bad, he knew he could end up in a world of trouble for this. It reminded him to tread lightly with anything concerning her. To him, it shouldn’t be that much of an issue for him to simply consider Violet a very pretty young woman, though he knew the eyes of the law felt very different on that matter. 

Some part of him wished to see her again, for them to meet again under more personal circumstances, see her smile and hear things she only shared with her closest confidants. Maybe he could even make her laugh as well. Though he knew it was never going to happen. He had his own life, his own career as an impresario to focus on. He had no time to go out of his way to seduce a pretty young thing such as herself. Plus he wasn’t too keen on how it could potentially affect his relations with both her parents. It would be easy enough to forget her anyway, after all there was no short list of others he could chase after, other beautiful women who could steal his attention away. 

“Boss? You there?”.

Olaf blinked and turned towards his associate, only really beginning to bring himself back to what they’d been talking about previously. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere” he apologised casually, before clearing his throat slightly and waving his hand towards the aforementioned script. “What do you think of it? Have any notes?”.

“It’s good. I especially love the outline you have for Nicholas’ character arc - his transition from a man wreaked with addiction and misfortune to someone who’s successful enough to inspire someone else to change their life is really compelling. His dynamic with the opera singer, Elissabeth, also has a lot of potential to develop if done right. How many acts are you thinking of for this?” Fernald reviewed. 

“Three, potentially. I was going to start on the script properly tonight”. 

Fernald nodded, holding out the notebook for him to take.“Right, right. The only other thing I really have to say is who are you thinking of casting as the opera singer?” he asked. 

“Not sure. As surprising as it may be, I’m not particularly knowledgeable on the craft enough to already have someone in mind” Olaf shrugged, placing the notebook down next to him and idly running his fingers over the smoothed wood of the desk he was leaning against. 

“You could ask Beatrice Baudelaire. I’m sure she’d be able to give some pointers, being a former soprano and all”. 

At that suggestion, he found himself wrinkling his nose in indistinct annoyance at his comrade. “Why would I want to involve her in any of this? This is my production, the last thing I need is for her to co-opt it” he argued. Truth be told, it wasn’t that bad of an idea to ask Beatrice for some advice, and he knew already that she wouldn’t mind lending him some input at all but it was still his script. It was already bad enough that she’d somehow managed to have an even more lucrative career than his, asking her for help on his own production felt like an admit of defeat in their rivalry, like an extra way of rubbing salt in the wound of their complex dynamic. 

“With all due respect, boss, do you really think she’d do that? She’s retired. She has a family now and more than enough of her own money that she wouldn’t need to become re-involved in theatre. Aren’t you two friends anyway?” he asserted, giving half a seconds pause before shrugging, no doubt an effort to placate his temper. “It was only a suggestion, it’s your call”. 

Giving an instinctive eye-roll, Olaf glanced back down at the notebook laying next to him on the desk, taunting him. He had felt tempted to reply back with a sneer, or some sort of rude remark that was entirely uncalled for in the current context but he didn’t, instead allowing himself to mull over the suggestion put forth to him properly. He had hoped after his interaction with Beatrice the night before that it’d be some time before they crossed paths again - he could finally keep to himself a little and only focus on his upcoming script. Looking over things now, he should have realised that inserting an opera singer as a character in his story would somehow bring her into things. It wouldn’t be too late to change it if he wanted to, as the script was still in early stages of ideas. However, he didn’t want to.  _ It’s only another afternoon with her, things don’t have to be weird unless you make it weird _ .

Still, he wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of meeting up with her again so soon, which is why when he remembered his interactions with Violet Baudelaire the night before he started to become a slight bit more amicable to the prospect of yet another encounter with Beatrice. He  _ had  _ been wanting to see her again somehow, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity for them to cross paths once more. It was a small chance, but it was enough to get him interested in the proposal. 

“Alright, I’ll call her up in the next couple of days, see if she wants to espouse some operatic wisdom over coffee” he sighed in an overly exasperated fashion. “In the meantime, I’ll start finalising the rest of this and begin to structure it so that it actually reads properly. You’re free to go” he dismissed, exiting the room in search of a shot of vodka, or several. Behind him he could hear Fernald stumbling to his feet in surprise, no doubt confused that their own meeting ended up running that short. He didn’t acknowledge his farewells in the background, or the sound of the door slamming shut. He was only focused on unscrewing the top of a bottle of vodka he kept on the kitchen counter, the lukewarm burn and bitterness hitting the back of his throat as he brought the glass to his lips and dulling the aching of emotion that threatened him everytime he woke up sober. One was for sure: it was gonna be a long week.

“So, you said over the phone that you needed help with your script, is that correct?”.

He eyed Beatrice as she placed down the cup of coffee on the table across from him, looking forward with an expression that one could certainly call pensive. It hadn’t been that long since they last saw each other - a week at most. In that time he’d managed to shift his focus back to the script that demanded to be written, focusing on ironing out finer details and such. By that point he didn’t have anything remotely near completed but it had been a start. Smoothing the tip of his index finger along the brim of his own cup, he began to nod in response to her. “Yes. My next play has a character who is an aspiring opera singer. Problem is, I don’t know who to cast in the role - I’m not so fond or knowledgable on the style, and nobody in my troupe can sing like that anyway. I thought I’d come to you, given your past successes” he elucidated, subconsciously adding in an element of curtness to those last words in particular. 

Predictably, and annoyingly so, Beatrice smiled with a sense of reminiscence, her gaze far and long removed from the current space around them as if she was staring straight into the memory itself. “Those were the days, weren’t they?” she sighed, lost deep in her own recollection and prompting him to discreetly roll his eyes at her.  _ Go ahead, why don’t you rub it in a bit more while you’re at it? _

“Olaf, I must ask: If you’re not so fond of opera, then why did you write a character as an opera singer?” he heard her inquire, effectively breaking him out of his train of thought. He hadn’t really put much thought into why he wanted the character in question to be an opera singer, so he didn’t know how to answer her straight away. Somewhere buried deep in his mind, he questioned for a split second if the reason he wrote this character in a particular way had to do with his own complicated views towards Beatrice. Was Elissabeth meant to be a subtle projection of his ideas of her? The similarities were there - both were opera singers, both were written as beautiful brunettes who came from wealth. However briefly he considered it, Olaf dismissed his own theory swiftly. There wasn’t meant to be anything deeper to it, so there was no need for any excessive analysation. Settling on an answer, he took a sip of coffee, feeling the bitter whiskey he spiked it with swirl on his tongue. “Call it the pull of the muse. Do you have any suggestions on who I could potentially get in this role?”. 

“Hmm...I’ve kept in touch with a few different people throughout the years. Lilian Schaffer could possibly be a good fit, and Amberly Feint does acting on the side as well” she pondered. “It’d be helpful to know the specifics of the character in question so I could better recommend someone”. 

“Alright, well, here’s what I was thinking. The character’s name is Elissabeth Martell. She’s an unhappy socialite and an aspiring opera soprano who’s in town to perform a show as part of her contract with her record label. She’s meant to come across as a woman who desperately wants to be in charge of herself but doesn’t have the backbone to stand up for what she wants. What drives her to connect with the main character of the play is her experiences with her manager and the horrible contract she’s stuck in. By the end, she’s inspired enough by the changes Nicholas has made in his own life to set out to change her own, becoming a fierce and formidable woman to be reckoned with”.

Beatrice listened on intently, before reaching out to lift her own cup of coffee from the table, cradling it in her hands while she spoke. “That’s quite a fascinating premise you’ve got there. If you want someone who’s able to do a more subdued demeanour, I’d contact Amberly. I’ll give you her number, she knows you’re a friend of mine and she owes me a favour anyway”.

“Excellent. Is there anything else I should consider? I would hate to end up portraying something inaccurately” he asked. His gaze began to wander around the room while he listened to Beatrice prattle on, paying enough attention to take note of what she was saying while still indulging in his own various thoughts, settling his stare somewhere near the entryway when his eyes stopped, fixated on the small sliver of open door that had been held ajar. It was only fleeting, but out the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of movement, a small hand that had been rested against the door that had been swiped away quickly once he’d looked over in her direction. With the small flash of baby blue fabric that disappeared as briskly as it appeared, he felt himself smirk as he realised exactly who was listening in on them. It appeared that he wouldn’t even have to go out of his way to seek her out: she’d delivered herself right to him. 

“You know, little girl, if you’re trying to eavesdrop you could really stand to be more discreet about it” he announced, staring in her direction and not missing a single beat. He was interested to see if this would be like the very first time they’d spoken years before, and to his amusement she slipped away from her hiding place behind the large set of double doors, taking a single step forward into the light so she could be seen properly. She looked just as gorgeous as she had when he’d last seen her: even with her hair lightly frazzled from whatever new invention she’d been tinkering with, she was still undoubtedly the image of delectability. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I only needed to grab something from in here. I’ll get it and go” she explained, not bothering to hide the fact that she’d just created an excuse on the spot so that she could save face. He could have sworn he saw that same blush from yesterday stain her cheeks, albeit lighter and less intense. 

“Don’t be silly, Violet, come sit with us. You don’t have to hide off to the side, I’m sure Olaf doesn’t mind having you here” Beatrice laughed, waving her daughter in to sit beside her and shooting an expecting look towards him. “Not at all” he smiled, watching her glide over and slide herself next to her mother, her eyes refusing to meet his as she looked down at her hands. “I was just telling your mother about some of the details of an upcoming play I’m writing”.

At that he could see her interest had been piqued, as her gaze lifted to him and her bright eyes studied him for answers. “How interesting. What is it called?” she asked.

Coughing a tad bit, he admitted “Currently, it doesn’t have a proper title. I’ve been debating between a few different ones, though none of them really strike me as very fitting.  _ Of Whiskey and Fortunes  _ is the title I’ve been mainly leaning towards” he admitted. “It still doesn’t particularly stand out to me in all honesty. I want something flashier, more attention grabbing”. 

She took a brief moment to consider what he’d said, letting out a small hum subconsciously while she thought things over. “I don’t think it’s that bad of a title, a little bit generic possibly but not necessarily bad” she announced finally, giving a brief glance over to where her mother was sitting before turning her attention back towards him. 

“Generic, hm? I suppose that’s one way to put it”. 

“Well, I just feel that the premise you have is more deserving of a somewhat more captivating title. Something that sounds poetic even” she elaborated, her demeanour becoming a little more relaxed the more she talked. He could tell she hadn’t been expecting to have the opportunity to say a word to him that night, despite her not-so-subtle spying. It was funny, in a way, that the second time they spoke so heavily mirrored that one particular moment from many years ago. If he had it his way, then there wouldn’t be anyone else around them, no other interruptions. He could listen to her opinions fully, possibly even relay more details of his latest script to her personally. Sadly though, Olaf was conscious of Beatrice’s presence in the room, the fact dawning on him that while he may have angled to see Violet as an added bonus, he was originally there to speak with her mother. 

“Interesting. Have you become a theatre critic since our last meeting, dear Violet?” he remarked, raising his eyebrow at her. Her eyes widened slightly at his comment, that little pink tinge in her cheeks he’d caught a glimpse of the day before returning. “Oh, I didn’t mean to offend you, I-” she stumbled. 

“You haven’t offended me at all, I was simply teasing you” he laughed, smirking furiously at her. “To be honest, I actually agree with your comments on the title - something about it simply doesn’t stick well. I had no idea you had any interest in theatre. Your mother has always told me how much you adored inventing” he added, redirecting his attention towards Beatrice while he took a sip of coffee.

“I guess you could say I dabble in a few things. Inventing is my main passion though. One day I’d love to have a large studio to myself, filled with all kinds of parts and materials that I can fashion together into new devices”.

Olaf nodded at her, thinking back to that small robot weasel from when she was seven. He felt tempted to ask if she ever ended up finishing it but ended up leading on towards something entirely different. A small idea sparked in his mind, and before he had the chance to contemplate it more he already found himself presenting the idea to the both of them. “I have to say, if you’re this keen to know more about my work then why don’t you come down for a preview of the production once everything is up and running?”.

Her expression turned to one of brief surprise, which later transitioned into joy and underlying excitement. “Really? That’s so generous of you” she smiled. Switching her gaze towards her mother, she looked upon the woman to gauge her reaction, searching for a sign of approval towards the proposal. Following her eyes, he noticed Beatrice looked just as astonished as her daughter was, yet she shrugged anyway and nodded in response. “That sounds delightful. I really didn’t expect this of you, Olaf. No disrespect but generous is never a trait I would have described you as”.

“Oh please, when have I ever not been generous?”.

“Try every other day of your life” Beatrice shot back. 

Olaf went to retort, though he could only muster another simple eye roll to her playfully snide statements. “Fair point. But honestly, it would be my pleasure. It won’t be for a while since the whole thing is only in early stages of development but in the next month or so you can expect a call from me. I’ll give you the address and you two can come down and take a look. Consider this as a sort of thank you for lending me your input today”. 

“Thank you for your offer. Violet and I will be most definitely awaiting your call in the near future” she replied politely, though not a moment too soon a look of distinct recognition crossed her face as she began to remember the promise she made earlier. “Oh! I just realised I hadn’t given you Amberly’s contact details. I’ll go grab a piece of paper and I’ll write it down for you. Like I said, she knows you and I are close, and unlike me she hasn’t retired from the business so she’d be more than happy to appear in another production” she added, already setting off in search of a scrap of paper to scrawl down on, and thankfully, giving him one moment alone again with the eldest Baudelaire. He didn’t think he would get that lucky, at most he thought he’d only be able to snatch a passing word to her, but to be able to catch her alone, talk to her without Beatrice’s interference itself was a rare opportunity, one he must certainly not squander. 

A significant part of him wondered why Violet even sought him out in the first place, for sure he was an impressive actor and playwright, though she’d had little knowledge of that previously when they’d first met. They had but one proper conversation with each other but she still drew herself near. Perhaps she was also seeking something, whether it be a minute interest in his theatrical skills or something more personal. It was hard to tell, in all honesty. Olaf always prided himself on being able to read people like a script but when it came to Violet, while he could still analyse her actions he still never felt confident in trying to pinpoint a motive. He only met the girl all of twice after all, and the first time she’d scarcely remembered. It was for this reason that as soon as Beatrice left the room he swung his attention back to the girl, the maddening sense of endearment filling within him that he could attribute to being entirely the product of the whiskey-spiked coffee. 

“So, why exactly were you spying on us through the door, little sneak?” he queried with a faint sense of accusation, enough to trigger a meek but defensive response from her. She managed to maintain some sense of composure but even he could tell it was a front, that underneath every inch of her was screaming to vacate the scene out of perceived embarrassment. She didn’t though, pulling through and responding to his rather pointed question with a formulated response. “Umm, well, I was curious when Mother mentioned you were visiting again today, and after last time you were here I wanted to speak with you again. The only reason I was lingering around the door was because you two seemed to be discussing something important, and I felt it would be rude of me to interrupt”. 

His first instinct would have been to marvel at her own approach to his query, her own need to maintain some sort of composure to distract from any underlying emotions she was feeling, yet failing rather spectacularly at it. From this interaction alone, it became easier to see what her motive was in seeking him out, one that he’d suspected as a possibility from the start. Her blushing cheeks and demure being the explicit portrait of a young infatuated woman. “I must have made quite an impression on you then” he teased back, sipping on the last dredges of coffee. 

“Maybe so. Maybe I was looking forward to your next visit. Maybe I’ll be looking forward to whenever your production is ready so I can see you again” Violet admitted, though the minute those last words escaped her lips she seemed to pause, almost definitely berating herself internally for being so forward, with a crimson red flush spreading across her cheeks to compliment it. How was it that she managed to be so endearing in those few times he’d spoken to her? 

“Well, maybe I’m looking forward to that day too. Maybe I’ve enjoyed our brief encounters with each other, clever girl. Maybe, just maybe, you might see me again sooner than you think”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year! here's a mediocre chapter to end off 2020


End file.
